The Devil's Due
by Adir Al-Assad
Summary: When JBL left the WWE for good, he thought that chapter of his life was long behind him. He soon finds that some doors just can't be closed. The Lord of Darkness returns to collect on a debt long owed, and the Devil will stop at nothing to get his due.
1. Chapter 1

**The Devil's Due: Chapter I  
**--E.K. Bradshaw

The Wayside Inn was roughly ten miles from the interstate exit, in a tiny roadside town known simply as Midway. What exactly the small town lay mid-way between was anyone's guess--and frankly, John Bradshaw Layfield didn't give a damn as to the answer. Presently, he was preoccupied with trying to figure out just where the hell he was. The town of Midway was nowhere to be found on his trusty highway map and, somewhere along the way, he knew he must have taken one hell of a wrong turn. Truth be told, he wasn't even sure which state he was in--though he figured he must be at least halfway to New York from Texas by now.

Two days had passed since Bradshaw's unceremonious departure from the WWE following WrestleMania. What had promised to be a gallant homecoming had ended in disaster, in humiliating defeat. _I quit. _He could count the number of times he had uttered those words in his entire life on one hand. Two days alone on the open road had given him time to think, to dwell on it, and two days' time had not lessened the sting of it. Not by a long shot. A quitter was a failure, and John Bradshaw Layfield was neither. No surrender. Never say die.

Needless to say, this was not something he was handling well.

But while his career as a self-professed Wrestling God was dead and buried, Bradshaw was not a man without options. When most men would have folded, he thrived, shining like a diamond in the face of adversity. It was the reason he was a self-made success, CEO of his own company, the filthy-rich embodiment of the American dream. What did not kill him, he knew, would only serve to make him stronger.

Ultimately, he had a plan already in the works where his future was concerned. He would channel his energy into expanding Layfield Energy, continue to build his considerable fortune, and the world would once again be his oyster. Already, he had several business dealings in line once he got back to the city. For now, though, he was content to play the part of power-broker by telephone as he stood at the open window of his hotel room in Midway.

"Look, Randy, I'm tellin' ya," he spoke into his cell phone. "Layfield Energy is the energy company of the _future_. Forget national, we're going worldwide. Once this marketing deal goes through, you're gonna want to buy stock in this company. Remember that, and convince as many of our investors of this as you can." The voice on the other end squawked some indignity, and Bradshaw found himself rolling his eyes. "Randy, listen. Have I ever steered you wrong? You ain't helpless, son. All I'm asking is that you hold the fort down till I get back. End of the week at the latest, I promise you. In the meantime, call me if anything goes down."

He snapped the phone shut, putting an end to the call, and to whatever protests his associate might have had.

With growing displeasure, he turned his gaze out the window, taking in the view that, quite frankly, left a hell of a lot to be desired. From his vantage point, there was literally _nothing_ to be seen. Beyond a one-lane, red dirt road, there was a wheat field--tall, golden stalks that seemed to span both horizons. The sun was setting fast, and the field was like a sea of fire beneath the angry red sky. Towering thunderheads loomed over the horizon, and the air was still and heavy, dead silent on the wings of the impending storm.

_Gonna be a bad one, _thought Bradshaw, as he pulled the window shut. His second thought, unbidden, sprang to his mind. _Sweet Lord, this place gives me the damn creeps._

The place reminded him of a low-budget horror film he had seen when he was young--something about a stranger from the city getting hopelessly lost and stopping to rest at a hotel in an isolated one-horse town. In the end, everybody died--hacked to bits with an axe by some deranged sociopath who had come from the cornfields. Naturally, the out-of-towner was the first to buy the farm.

White lightning raced across the crimson sky, and the wind rushed over the plain; the wheat moved as if it were alive. Bradshaw yanked the curtains shut and promptly turned away from the window.

Night came quickly, eternal darkness stretching over the prairie.

Bradshaw busied himself with unpacking, laying his things out on the bed. He was tired, more so than he'd thought. He undressed, trading his polo shirt and slacks for a pair of monogrammed silk pajamas. In the still silence of the room, his every movement seemed amplified. An odd creaking noise reached his ears--_what was that?--_and he stopped where he was, listening. _Probably just a board creaking or something, _he thought. _Damn place is probably ready to collapse as it is. _He was in the process of turning down the covers when the phone rang, the shrill jangling causing Bradshaw to nearly jump to the ceiling. He laughed at himself, recovering his wits before picking up.

"John Layfield," he answered.

"Hey, darlin.'" He recognized the voice of the desk clerk, a grandmotherly woman named Mabel. "Just wanted to ask what time you wanted your wake-up call in the mornin.'"

"Seven is fine," he answered politely. "Thank you, ma'am."

"Sorry to disturb you, dear. You have a nice sleep, now."

"Thank you, ma'am."

He hung up, finding his nerves still a tad on edge, and instantly felt silly for it. _Don't you go gettin' all spooked on me, son. _It had been a long day, a long drive. Adding to his stress was the fact that he hated this godforsaken town for all it was worth. Which, he was sure, wasn't much. A stiff drink and a good night's sleep was what he needed. Come morning, he could put his heels to this hole in the wall and never look back. There was a small bottle of Jack Daniels in his overnight bag and he pulled it out, opened it and took a swig. _That's the ticket. _He knocked the bottle back once more for good measure and settled back against the pillows. The alcohol was already starting to take effect, beginning to dull his senses. His eyes fluttered shut and he began to drift.

He was just on the verge of sleep when the phone shrilled again, startling him wide awake. _Goddamn it. _His hand found the receiver blindly.

"Layfield," he said groggily, but no answer came. "Hello?" An audible click, followed by a dial tone. _Wrong number, _he guessed, and hung up. He flipped the bedside light off and turned over in bed, his body finally and completely succumbing to sleep.

* * * * *

He woke again some few hours later to the sound of thunder rumbling overhead, and the staccato sound of rain hammering on the rooftops. He groaned and rolled in the direction of the window; as he did, a spray of raindrops splattered cold against his face, blowing in through the wide-open window he was sure he'd closed.

_Hellfire, shit and damnation._

Begrudgingly, he turned the light on and rose, padding across the bare wood floor to shut the window--firmly this time. _Maybe now I can get some damn sleep. _

He had just turned from the window when a blinding flash of lightning struck _right_ overhead. The resonating crack of thunder was deafening, rattling the walls, threatening to bring the building down. It was in that same instant that the lights in the room flickered and died. The dense, all-encompassing darkness that ensued was quite possibly the blackest that Bradshaw had ever experienced. _Christ, I can't see a damn thing. _To make matters worse, the phone was ringing again. Blind in the dark, he staggered toward the source of the noise. He tripped over his boots and banged his shin hard on the nightstand in the process. A colorful stream of profanity shot from his mouth as he hopped on his one good leg and snatched the phone off the hook, fully intending to give whoever was on the other end of that line a piece of his West-by-God-Texas _mind_--

"_What_, goddamn it?" he answered unpleasantly. The line crackled and remained silent, and Bradshaw lost what little remaining composure he had left. "Listen! I don't know who the goddamn hell this is, but if you don't speak right the hell up, right now, I swear with God as my witness, I'm gonna come over there and shove my fist so far--"

"_Beware_." The way that one word was spoken made Bradshaw stop, mid-rant. Unnerving silence ensued, and the back of his neck prickled.

"Who is this?" he demanded. "Who's there?"

"A man reaps what it is that he sows." The voice was shrill and piercing, and Bradshaw couldn't help but think he might have heard it somewhere before. "But beware, thou, he who is the reaper of men. For it is he who will drag away the souls of sinners, screaming, into the flames of eternal darkness."

"Is this some kind of joke?" The entity on the other end laughed, a high-pitched, dreadful sound.

"Your hour of reckoning is at hand. A man reaps what he sows, Bradshaw." A chill ran, unbidden, down Bradshaw's spine.

"How the hell do you know my name? Whoever you are, I ain't afraid of you--"

"You shouldn't be afraid, Bradshaw. No, you should be _terrified_." A gleeful cackle came through the receiver, resonating with madness. Bradshaw dropped the phone and took a step backward, then, after a second thought he grabbed the whole thing, yanked it from the wall and threw it across the room. A sick dread was overtaking him like a slow burn, twisting his stomach into knots. _You're freaking out, boy. Get a grip on yourself. Pull it together. _

Somewhere in the back of his mind was his rational self, telling him that this was _rigoddamndiculous_, that a grown man shouldn't be afraid of the dark, that a few weird phone calls were nothing to be as scared shitless of as he was at present. He fought to regain his wits even as the storm raged out of control directly overhead, and the pale lightning brought jagged, menacing shadows to life along the dingy walls, and dear sweet _Lord_, is that a _person_ at the window--

He froze dead, heart racing, his nagging dread kicking into a full-blown panic.

_Light_, his mind screamed. _Need light. Flashlight. Candle. Anything. _

He found the nightstand drawer, where he recalled having seen a box of emergency tapers and a box of matches. Rummaging blindly, he found them--_thank you, __**God**_--and struck a match, lighting one of the tapers, and then a second. The tiny, quivering flames did little to ward off the heavy darkness, but light was light and Bradshaw was thankful for it. Still a bundle of raging nerves, he stood and paced, back and forth between the bed and the window.

"There's nobody here," he told himself aloud. The tone of his own voice was by no means reassuring. "There's nothing else here. Just you, son. Just you and the dark."

_**Darkness there and nothing more.**_

The voice Bradshaw heard in his head then was deep and foreboding and not at all his own. He heard it loud and clear, within and without, the ominous baritone taking hold of all his senses at once. _Is it the wind ceaselessly knocking, knocking at your chamber door? No, no, dear Bradshaw. It is I. Reaper of men. Chaser of souls._

Bradshaw's heart sank to his toes. He could have placed that voice anywhere. That raw fear, that primal terror was back and it screamed at him now--_out out get __**out**_--though he knew by now that it was far too late. He could feel that unmistakable presence at his backside, black as the Ace of Spades.

He didn't want to turn around, but he found himself doing so nevertheless, compelled by a power far stronger than his own. He knew the sight that awaited him would make his blood run cold in his veins.

And it did.

When John Bradshaw Layfield turned, he found himself face-to-face with one of the most evil entities to ever walk the earth.

The Lord of Darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Devil's Due: Chapter II  
**--EKB

The Lord of Darkness.

It couldn't be. There was just no way in hell it could be _possible_--

For a long moment, Bradshaw stood agape, in utter disbelief, as he beheld the looming specter before him.

_The Lord of Darkness. You have __**got**__ to be __**shitting**__ me._

Nevertheless, there the apparition stood--black as night and plain as day. There was no mistaking his identity. Bradshaw recognized him at once, recognized the darkly-smug countenance and blazing eyes of hellfire of a demon he thought only existed in nightmares.

It had been on a particularly dark and stormy night nearly ten years before that Mark Callaway--the Undertaker--had exorcised the Lord of Darkness. That malevolent force that had plagued and controlled the Undertaker, body and mind, for so many years of his life, had been destroyed that night, banished to the depths where he belonged. The Lord of Darkness was dead and buried.

Or, at least, Bradshaw had _thought_ he was.

Clearly something, somewhere, had gone terribly awry.

The entity of the Undertaker was one constructed with complexity. His psyche was a finely-tuned yin and yang of dark and light, good and evil. In this creature, however, there was no careful balance. There was only evil, in its truest, purest form. The fact that this being was actually standing here, an entity all of his own, both perplexed and terrified the hell out of Bradshaw.

His eyes took in the sight of the Lord of Darkness--a sight more powerful and foreboding than even the Undertaker himself. He exuded dominance, mentally and physically. As he slipped from the shadows and moved toward him, Bradshaw could feel the raw, vulgar power that emanated from his being--otherworldly and treacherous, recklessly seductive in a way that was almost erotic. There was a glimmer of sadistic amusement in the demon's eyes as his gaze caught Bradshaw's and held him there, rapt.

"What's the matter, Bradshaw?" He spoke his name like a condemnation. "You look like you've seen a ghost." One measured step toward him and the trance was broken. In all of half a second, Bradshaw had thrown himself backward, raising both hands in defense.

"No." His voice came out much less steady than he'd have preferred. "This isn't happening. You can't be here, it's--it's impossible."

"You're surprised to see me?" A wicked smile played at the corners of the Dark Lord's mouth. "I don't see how you could be. You and I both know this has been a long time coming." His voice dropped, the tone of it sending a shudder through Bradshaw's very soul. "Your time has come, Bradshaw. The hour of your judgment is at hand."

"Stay back," warned Bradshaw. "Don't you dare take one more step near me. Now--" He swallowed, hard. "Now, you listen to me. I don't know what pit of hell you managed to slither out of, but I suggest you head right back where you came from."

The Lord of Darkness glowered at Bradshaw, those hellfire eyes flashing dangerously at him in the waning candlelight. "Don't you look at me like that. I ain't scared of you. Now, you got no business here. Not with me. So I suggest, respectfully, that you leave, so I might actually get some damn sleep tonight. Door's that way."

The specter remained still, unmoving. He wasn't budging. Bradshaw's stomach did a violent flip-flop. "All right," he said, drawing himself up to his own considerable height. "If you ain't gonna leave, then--" A threat was on his tongue but he reconsidered, thought better of it. "Then I will. 'Night!" He made a beeline for the door.

"I wouldn't do that," stated the Lord of Darkness simply.

"Yeah? _Watch_ me."

Bradshaw was almost to the door when the demon raised one hand and--to his ever-growing horror--he watched his only exit become an impenetrable wall of flame. "Holy shit!" Bradshaw staggered back, feeling the blood drain from his face. _Jesus H. fucking Christ._

"Weren't you just leaving?" inquired an all-too-amused voice from behind. Bradshaw turned around, only to see the Lord of Darkness smirking again. The fact that the evil creature looked pleased did not bode well, not in the slightest.

"All right, damn it." caved Bradshaw. "You've got my full attention. Now what the hell is it that you want?"

"You'll find out," came the sinister reply. "All in due time, you'll find out. For now, you're coming with me."

"The hell I am." Bradshaw found himself backing away again, fear rising once more in his chest. "You are out of your half-dead mind if you think I'd willingly go _anywhere_ with you." The Lord of Darkness just laughed.

"I never said anything about willingly." He was stalking Bradshaw now, moving methodically, predatorily toward him.

Bradshaw kept backing away until he couldn't. His back hit the unyielding wall, and he found himself searching frantically for an escape. He found none. There was no way out.

_Trapped. Trapped like a damn rat in a cage._

If he was going to make any sort of stand, he knew, the time for it would be now. He made a move--whether it was to flee or to strike, he wasn't certain. Whatever the case, he didn't make it far before he was stopped cold.

In one long stride, the Lord of Darkness had closed the space between them, and Bradshaw found himself being grabbed and hauled back against the wall with such force, he was afraid he'd go right through it. A large hand wrapped around his throat, and the demon's deep voice intoned something in a tongue Bradshaw didn't understand. His eyes rolled back white, glowing. Bradshaw struggled, though he knew it was an effort all in vain. His strength was already waning, and he was fading fast. It was as if some powerful supernatural force were robbing his body, his mind, of their ability to fight back. The iron grip on his throat tightened, and he saw dark stars in front of his eyes.

_I'm gonna die in here, _was Bradshaw's last coherent thought as the world around him began to fade and blur.

The very last thing his mind registered were the eyes of the demon, burning into the back of his mind. Then, his vision faded to black as his body gave in, surrendering at last to the will of the Lord of Darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Devil's Due: Chapter III  
**--EKB

It was dark where he was--this much, Bradshaw was able to tell even in his dazed state of semi-consciousness. His head was pounding, reeling violently as he came roughly to. He opened his eyes, his vision taking a ghastly blur, and shut them again just as quickly.

_Christ Almighty, where the hell am I?_

_Hell. Is this hell? Am I dead?_

**Dead. **The word brought on a barrage of whirlwind thoughts and recollections from somewhere in his mind. _Death. The Lord of Darkness. Darkness there and nothing more._

Bradshaw groaned. He found himself trying to move, though it was an effort he found in vain. It dawned on him that he was chained--arms over his head, ankles shackled below--to some sort of metal structure he couldn't quite make out at the moment. His mind was fighting desperately to make sense of his current situation: where he was, why he was there, how the devil he'd gotten there in the first place. He had a sick, sinking feeling that he would soon learn the answer to all these questions, in due time.

His eyes fluttered open and closed again, seeing naught but black, his mind comprehending nothing. Then, a shrill, singsong voice was piercing his incoherent senses all at once.

"Hello-o-o-o-o-o, Bradshaw!" Sweet Lord, that voice. He recognized it at once, though he was having a hell of a time believing it. "Wakey, wakey!" A hard slap across the cheek brought him around full-circle. His double vision came at once to rest on the plump, black suited man who stood to his left. Paul Bearer.

"Now I know I've died and gone to hell," groaned Bradshaw.

"Oh, goody!" exclaimed Paul. "He's alive, my lord."

"Of course he is," the answering deep voice resonated from somewhere else in the room. For all Bradshaw knew, it could have come from another planet entirely, an alternate plane in some other nightmare universe. "I've no need to be killing him. At least, not yet." The sound of heavy footsteps, retreating away. _His_.

Paul cackled gleefully, and Bradshaw found himself grasping for complete control of his senses. His vision corrected itself gradually and he glanced around, taking in his surroundings as they came to him. The large area he was in was unpleasantly cold and damp, with concrete walls and flooring. It gave him the impression of an underground cellar or basement or--_a dungeon._

Bradshaw's heart dropped.

_Ain't no good gonna come from this, son._

Senses now on high alert, he studied the rest of the room around him. Chains and shackles adorned an adjacent wall, while the next showcased an array of barbaric torture instruments, each one capable of maiming and inflicting the worst sorts of pain. The most dastardly device of torture and punishment, however, was nowhere to be seen. Where was the Undertaker? _Correction_, Bradshaw reminded himself, _the Lord of Darkness_. Where had he gone?

It occurred to Bradshaw that he was now alone with Bearer which, even under normal circumstances, would not have been the ideal scenario. It beat the hell out of being alone with both those evil sons of bitches, as it were.

"It was you," said Bradshaw, his voice echoing in the cavernous hall.

"Hmmm?" came the reply. Bradshaw turned his head in the direction of the voice. Paul Bearer stood to his left at a table of sorts, flipping idly through a large, leather-bound volume. Shutting the book abruptly, he strolled over to Bradshaw.

"You called me, didn't you? That was you. On the phone."

"Well, aren't you the observant one?" A smug smirk flitted over Paul's features.

"Why?" Bradshaw demanded. "Tell me, why'd you do it? To warn me?"

"Why, certainly not," Paul replied with exaggerated, theatrical surprise. "Consider it a courtesy call. I always did think it was terribly rude of people to show up without calling first."

"Funny," sneered Bradshaw. "That's almost as bad as somebody showing up uninvited." His eyes narrowed. "You know, I hope both of you know, you ain't gonna get away with this. Your fat ass and your half-dead friend are gonna be in a world of hurt once this is over. I can guaran-damn-tee it."

Paul grinned, his face contorting like a Halloween mask.

"You say that, Bradshaw, as if we intend to let you walk out of here. There is only one way anyone who is brought here can leave this place." He drew a finger across his throat in a slashing motion.

"Why you--" Bradshaw started, struggling against his bonds. The chains rattled loudly against their metal frame. "I swear, if I weren't chained to this damn wall, I'd whip your sorry--" He stopped, mid-threat.

The eerie sound of a rusty-hinged door creaking open reached his ears, followed by slow, heavy footfalls approaching. The Lord of Darkness reappeared, clad in some sort of snug, medieval-looking leather getup, dark hair hanging loose over his shoulders. There was a heavy brass urn in his left hand, and he set it on the table by the book Paul had been perusing. As he approached, he fixed a predatory gaze on Bradshaw.

"Well, well," said the demon with a grin. "How nice of you to join us. The fact that you are conscious will serve to make this all the more entertaining--for me, I'm afraid."

"You sick bastard," said Bradshaw with a glare. "What the hell are you planning? What is this, and what the _hell_ does it got to do with me?"

"He certainly asks a lot of questions, doesn't he, Undertaker?"

"Too many questions, indeed."

"Perhaps we should remind him what curiosity did to the poor, unfortunate feline. So much blood, Undertaker, so much blood--"

"Bearer!" Bradshaw exploded. "I swear to God--" He closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath. "This isn't happening," he said. "This can't be real. Both of you are supposed to be _dead!_" His eyes opened and came to rest on the dark figure ahead of him. "Ten years ago," he said pointedly, "Mark Callaway killed you. He performed a ritual to rid himself of your sorry ass. I know because I was there. I assisted him. You were supposed to be _gone_."

"Right," said the demon with disinterest. "And how'd that turn out?"

"Judging by the fact that you're standing here? Not so good."

"What's the saying? You cannot kill that which is already dead." His gaze drifted to the urn on the table beside him. "Poor Mr. Callaway. Such a shame that he had to get in my way." Bradshaw felt his stomach twist.

"What the hell are you on about? What have you done to him?"

"Don't worry, Bradshaw. He's close by. His spirit is here with us." He gestured toward the table. "In that urn, if you will." There was a momentary pause before he continued. "The man you know as Mark Callaway is dead. I killed him." The words were so cold, so empty, that they sent a shiver through Bradshaw's subconscious. "For the longest time, there was him, and there was me. I was trapped within his mind. Forced to do his bidding. Now, the tables have turned. I control his mind, his body, and there is no him. There is only me. I am the Undertaker now."

"You bastard," Bradshaw's voice was thin when he spoke again. "Whatever it is that you think you're gonna do with me--"

"Ah, and it always comes back to you, doesn't it, Bradshaw?" the demon interrupted. "You always were a sniveling, self-serving coward of a man. Perhaps that's what landed you here to begin with." He grinned slyly. "Undoubtedly, you're wondering why I've brought you here."

"The question's crossed my mind," Bradshaw answered bitterly.

"The answer, dear Bradshaw, is simple." The Lord of Darkness strode toward Bradshaw, that unnerving gleam once again flickering in his otherworldly green eyes. "This meeting of ours concerns the matter of a debt you owe. You see, you possess something rightfully belonging to me. Specifically--" he paused, and a sinister smile spread across his face. _"Your __**soul**__."_


	4. Chapter 4

**The Devil's Due: Chapter IV  
**--EKB

For the longest of moments, Bradshaw could only stare in outright disbelief at the man in front of him, could fathom no sort of logical response to the sort of claims he was making. His _soul? _The words themselves made no sense. It was dawning rather quickly on Bradshaw that the Undertaker--the Lord of Darkness, who_ever_ the _hell_ he was--was quite clearly and presently out of his damn mind. Insane, even under the current circumstances, seemed a vague understatement.

He was bluffing, Bradshaw thought. He had to be. Hell, he couldn't possibly be serious…

"All right, Taker, dammit." conceded Bradshaw. "Why are you doing this? What do you _really_ want from me?"

"You don't listen very well, do you?" The Undertaker remarked dryly. "Perhaps you didn't hear me the first time, so I'll repeat myself once more. I. Want. Your. Soul." He placed a careful emphasis on each word.

"Money," Bradshaw tried, fighting down the surge of panic that was threatening to rise into his chest. "Is that it? You want money, I--I can give you anything. You just name it."

"I have named my price," the Lord of Darkness snapped. "And I am not a man who can be bought easily with trivial things. Your time of bargaining, Bradshaw, is past."

"You've lost it," said Bradshaw. "All that formaldehyde you got down here, it's fried your damn brain or something."

"A man reaps what he sows, Bradshaw," said the Undertaker eerily. "He reaps what he sows and he carries it to his grave. Your time to pay what you owe has come--and believe me, you will pay. _Dearly._"

"I don't owe you a damn thing," sneered Bradshaw. The Lord of Darkness chuckled in response.

"I admire your conviction," he said. "And I always did like it when you put up a fight. Serves to keep things interesting, as it were." A sadistic grin spread across his face. "Now, I suppose the question is, what shall I do with you?" He paused a moment, as if considering, and nodded toward Bearer. "Paul, go to my study, and fetch my book of ritual sacrifices."

"Yes, my lord, it will be done." Paul bowed deeply and scurried from the room--like a rat, thought Bradshaw. A great, big, fat rat. Bradshaw scowled with displeasure, watching him go out of the corner of his eye. Then, a great sense of dread settled over him as he realized he was now alone with the Lord of Darkness--and that he was nowhere within his sights.

_Amazing how that conspicuous son of a bitch can disappear right in plain view…_

Presently, there was the harsh grating sound of metal dragging heavily against concrete, off to the left out of his line of vision. When the Undertaker came back into view, he had an old, rusted shovel in his hand.

_Oh, dear God. What the hell's he gonna do with that--_

"Do you know, Bradshaw," the Lord of Darkness ventured, "how long it takes a man to dig a grave by hand?" Bradshaw didn't--though he was afraid to speak and answer either way. "Don't worry. I'll give you some time to think about it." He smirked and raised the shovel, hefting it in his hands. Then, without warning, he drew back and swung hard. The blow connected with Bradshaw's skull, catching him above the temple, rendering him unconscious for the second time that night.

When Bradshaw came to once again, he was alone in the dungeon. His head was throbbing more so than before, and he was fairly certain he could feel the sticky, wet warmth of blood pouring down the side of his face from his temple. He felt dizzy, lightheaded; all his limbs were dead and heavy.

He had no concept of how long he had been out--or even how long he had been here, in this god-awful place. There was no way of knowing how much time had passed--if time, here, even existed. The only thing Bradshaw knew about time was that, presently, his was running out.

_I gotta get out of here._

Bradshaw tugged on the chains experimentally, putting all the weight and force into them that he could manage, but they did not budge. _Damn it. _He raised his head to survey the structure above him, to see where his bonds were anchored--and instantly looked back down again, shutting his eyes tight. To his dismay, he recognized the high arch of the not-quite-cross, the two stakes intersecting from either side across a "T" shape. The very symbol of the Lord of Darkness.

"Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no." He fought against his bonds again, kicking and struggling with all his might until he was exhausted. When that effort failed, he took a deep breath and screamed at the top of his lungs, hoping that someone, somewhere, might hear him. "Help! Please, somebody! Anybody! **HELP!**"

"You can scream all you want," came an amused voice from the staircase. "But nobody can hear you out here. Nobody but me and Paul, and the spirits of the dead."

The Lord of Darkness reappeared, carrying with him a large, bound book and a long, black leather case. He set both on the table and took a seat, opening the book to a marked page. Bradshaw watched him warily all the while.

"The hell're you doing?" he demanded.

"Keeping you company," answered the Undertaker sardonically. "I figured you'd be lonely down here. Afraid of the dark, maybe."

"I ain't scared of you, Taker."

"Keep telling yourself that," was the disinterested answer, as the Lord of Darkness flipped to the next page and frowned. "Hmm. Phlebotomy. How boring." Bradshaw could only close his eyes and groan.

"This isn't happening," he murmured aloud. "This can't be real. This is all just a horrible dream."

"So wake up. Dream yourself out of these shackles and back into your bed." The Lord of Darkness raised his eyes from the page in front of him, his penetrating stare no less unnerving even from halfway across the room. "Rest assured, Bradshaw. Even if you could, even if you did, you would never be safe. I would never rest. I would hunt you down, and believe me, I would find you." With that, he resumed his reading. "How do you feel about evisceration?"

"You're going to kill me, aren't you?"

"There are fates far worse than death." Bradshaw let his head drop down against his chest, eyes to the cold concrete floor.

"Why are you doing this?"

"You should be aware of the reasons by now."

"Well, I'm not." His head snapped up again. "And I can safely say that, soul or otherwise, I don't owe you a _god_damn thing." At this, the Undertaker glanced up once more, one eyebrow arched quizzically.

"Why, you really _don't_ know. Could it be that you've forgotten the terms of our little agreement?"

"I don't know what the _hell_ you're talking about. More than likely because you're crazier than a rat in a tin shit-house. Now, listen, because this might be hard for you to understand. I have changed. Unlike you, I've escaped servitude to that darker power of yours. But more importantly, I stepped out of your godforsaken shadow, and I made a life of my own, on my own. No thanks to you, of course."

"How horrendously inspiring," the Lord of Darkness deadpanned, without looking up.

"Perhaps it's time," Paul Bearer's voice nearly startled Bradshaw out of his skin. "Perhaps we should tell him the truth, Undertaker. The entire truth. After all, it's the least we could do."

"The truth?" Bradshaw's eyes narrowed. "What aren't you sneaky bastards telling me?"

Bearer and the Lord of Darkness exchanged a knowing glance; both men smirked.

Bradshaw couldn't help the sinking feeling that this was only going to get much worse.


	5. Chapter 5

**The Devil's Due: Chapter V  
**--E.K. Bradshaw

The Lord of Darkness turned from Paul, his countenance one of unsettling amusement as he turned his attention back to Bradshaw. The wavering firelight of the torches caught and danced in the otherworldly green gaze.

"Perhaps you're right, Paul," mused the Undertaker thoughtfully. "Perhaps it is time we told him the truth."

_The truth. _The awful, sinking sensation of dread was returning fast, and Bradshaw swallowed hard. It occurred to him that he'd not the slightest idea as to what substantial revelation might await him--but knowing what he knew of the Lord of Darkness, there was no way in hell it could be anything _good_.

"Now, Bradshaw," the commanding voice spoke, effectively grabbing his full attention. "I want you to think about this. Thirteen years ago tonight, you and I made a deal."

_Christ, thirteen __**years?**__ You got to be __**kidding**__ me._

Bradshaw racked his brain, trying to dredge up some, _any_ sort of recollection at all--coming up decidedly short. _Thirteen years. _Thinking back on it now, it seemed ancient history. If his memory served him correctly, it was around that juncture that he and Faarooq had begun their tenure as servants in the Ministry of Darkness. Those years in particular were somewhat of a dark place of the soul for Bradshaw, the recollections of which he had long striven to eliminate from memory. There was something there though, he knew, something significant. He could feel it deep in his gut. _But what?_

He stared dubiously at the Undertaker, remaining stone-silent.

"Not ringing any bells, I see," remarked the Lord of Darkness. "Very well. Allow me to refresh your memory, if you will. You see, thirteen years ago, Bradshaw, you came to me as nothing. A nobody." He grinned. "That's right. Before me, the great John Bradshaw Layfield wasn't jack shit. But you came to me, Bradshaw, with the hope of being something more. Something greater. Somebody that people would actually give two shits about. But I digress."

Bradshaw glared vehemently, muttering under his breath.

"You came to me," continued the Undertaker, "telling me of your greed-driven ambitions. You wanted money, fame, power--things you knew damn well you couldn't attain on your own. But I--I was in a position of making it happen. And I would. All I asked for in return was your unquestioning obedience, and the small price of your mortal soul, to be surrendered willingly to me before the passage of thirteen years' time." A look of smug satisfaction passed across the Undertaker's features. "So, tell me. How does it feel, knowing all your great accomplishments, everything you've done that actually means something, has been granted to you through your deal with the devil?"

"How _dare_ you." Bradshaw's tone seethed with contempt. "How dare you insinuate for one second that anything I have accomplished has been through anyone but myself."

"Think about it, Bradshaw. You have done exceedingly well for yourself, haven't you?"

"You shut your mouth."

"It was I," said the Undertaker matter-of-factly, "who gazed into your soul, and by my hand, your destiny was shaped. You are who you are because of _me_." Bradshaw recoiled from the words as if from a physical blow. The implications of this, he realized, were staggering.

"No. You're lying. I don't believe a damn word you're saying." Bradshaw was adamant. "You've shown me no proof whatsoever that you're not just certifiably bat-shit insane and pulling things out your ass."

Here, Paul Bearer--who had been uncharacteristically silent all the while--spoke up once more.

"The contract, Undertaker," he said, matter-of-factly. "Shall we show him the contract?"

"_What_ contract?"

"At the time of your accord," Paul elaborated, "I took it upon myself to draft a contract which I, myself, bore witness to you signing." He smiled, offhandedly. "All the legal loopholes you can find in these modern times. One can never be so careless as to not have their agreements in writing."

"Right," sneered Bradshaw. "And this contract of yours. I'll believe it when I see it."

"Oh, I had sincerely hoped you would say that!" Paul exclaimed delightedly. With that, one hand disappeared into the inner pocket of his dark suit jacket, from which he withdrew an old, weathered parchment scroll. "The devil is in the details, I'm afraid." He laughed giddily. "Oh, my, what a terrible pun." With that, he unfurled the scroll, letting it fall open into view.

Bradshaw automatically blanched at the sight.

In an instant, his entire world was spinning, crashing down before his eyes. Panic coursed through his veins.

"Oh, God," he murmured.

"A bit late for that, I'm afraid."

"This can't be happening. This can't be--damn it, there must be some mistake."

"I don't make mistakes," the Lord of Darkness insisted.

"Well, you _damn_ well did this time!" he burst out, the force behind his voice surprising even him. The Undertaker's green eyes narrowed, and Bradshaw felt his stomach twist. "Please," he said, considerably softening his tone. "You got to believe me when I tell you that I've changed, Taker. The man I was then--I'm not him anymore." The Undertaker regarded him with blatant disinterest, arms folded over his chest. "Please." Desperation seeped into his voice as he spoke. "Let's be reasonable about this. There must be some sort of compromise we can come to."

"Impressive." The Undertaker raised both eyebrows and smirked. "Bradshaw, are you at all familiar with the Kübler-Ross model?" Bradshaw shook his head wordlessly. "The five stages of grief. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and, eventually, acceptance. It is the process by which people handle catastrophic events of great loss and tragedy, particularly one's own process of death." He smirked. "You just shot right through the first three stages in the blink of an eye. You're well on your way to acceptance, son."

_Acceptance. The final act of surrender. _

Bradshaw felt his heart jump into his throat.

"Please," he tried once more. "You don't have to do this. You have the power to stop this, just let it go--"

"I'm afraid that just isn't possible," replied the Undertaker, dark determination in his tone. "Terms are terms. You should know this by now." He turned regally and moved away, back toward the center of the room. "The harsh reality of this is, your fate has already been sealed. I couldn't undo it even if I wanted to. Which, to be honest, I don't."

Bradshaw felt physically ill. He watched with growing unease as the Lord of Darkness turned to the items on the table. His hand ran reverently over the long, velvet case that rested beside the large, leather-bound Book of Ritual Sacrifices.

"My lord," said Paul, "the time draws near. Have you selected a method of ritual sacrifice?"

"I have," replied the Undertaker. "One near and dear to my depraved heart." He grinned with dark satisfaction.

"What would you have me do, my lord?"

"Go to the mortuary," the Undertaker instructed. "Retrieve a casket. See that it is taken to the cemetery at the top of the hill. When our ritual site is ready, return to me."

"It will be done, my lord." Paul bowed deeply, then disappeared in the direction of the door. Then, the Undertaker turned back to Bradshaw, the malicious gleam in his eye betraying his evil intentions.

"And as for you," he said, "I do hope you continue to hang around. Our fun is just beginning."


	6. Chapter 6

**The Devil's Due: Chapter VI  
**--EKB

The Undertaker opened the long, black case, withdrawing from it a long, metal object that Bradshaw didn't have to look at twice to recognize. He had grown up in Texas; he knew well what a branding iron looked like--though he had to admit, the knowledge in itself didn't serve to help him any. His eye caught the end of the brand, the symbol, the "T" with two stakes intersecting.

_Christ. He's going to brand me with his symbol and bury me alive, or burn me at the stake, or whatever it is that he does to people in his spare time. Dear God, help me. _

He felt the acrid taste of bile rising up from the pit of his stomach.

"Please." The disembodied voice sounded alien to his own ears; Bradshaw wasn't sure it even belonged to him anymore. "Taker, you know you don't have to do this."

"Ah, but I do," countered the Lord of Darkness, turning the branding iron in his hands experimentally. "You see, you made this choice yourself. If you had just upheld your end of the bargain and come to me before I was obliged to hunt down your sorry ass, this wouldn't be happening. Men seal their own fates, not I."

He was moving across the room, toward one of the lit torches, and Bradshaw felt a rise of panic. He watched in outright terror as he extended the brand into the flames. "How the mighty have fallen, Bradshaw," he remarked, flashing a sinister grin in Bradshaw's direction. "You know, this is going to hurt like hell."

Bradshaw drew in a sharp, shaky breath.

The Undertaker removed the brand from the fire, the heated metal glowing maliciously, as he strode back toward Bradshaw. "Make no mistake, you will suffer by my hand." He smirked. "If anything," he said, "you can seek solace in the fact that this will all be over _very_ soon."

He took the brand in both hands and raised it, murmuring something in a language Bradshaw didn't understand. Then he drove it forward. The red-hot iron seared through the material of his shirt and into his chest, seemingly all the way to the bone. The stench of charred flesh invaded his nostrils and the pain was excruciating, setting every nerve in his body on fire.

Bradshaw screamed until he couldn't.

* * * *

Consciousness faded in and out, sketchy periods of lucidity that were like waves upon the short--rushing in with force, only to wane out again. Perhaps, thought Bradshaw, it was shock from his injuries, head trauma--or perhaps it was that the Lord of Darkness had taken possession of his mind when he had begun his ritual. The Undertaker's words echoed in what now remained of his conscious mind, a litany repeating itself over and over again.

_This will all be over soon._

He heard voices--one or two--from somewhere not too far off. He was vaguely aware of someone rattling the chains that bound him; his mind registered the sound of a key turning in the padlock beside his head. Then, his shackles abruptly released, his legs gave way, and he slumped unceremoniously into a heap on the floor.

Half-dazed, he found himself staring up into the grim countenances of the Undertaker and Paul Bearer. Bradshaw's head reeled. Then, those menacing green eyes turned on him, and he felt an involuntary jolt of fear.

"Earlier, Bradshaw," said the Undertaker, "I asked you a question. I asked you if you knew how long it would take a man to dig a grave by hand. It wasn't a rhetorical question, as luck would have it." He paused, contemplating. "I don't know the answer, I'm afraid. That's why we're going to find out." Here, he passed an old, iron shovel to Paul. He assumed it to be the same one he'd been hit with earlier; he could still see blood drying on the spade.

He reached down, hauling Bradshaw to his feet with ease. "You're going to go with Paul," he commanded, "and you're going to go quietly." The calm in his tone veiled an underlying threat. "Don't try anything stupid. Remember, you can run, but you can't hide from me." Here, he turned to Bearer. "Take him, Paul, and go to the churchyard. I will follow you once I have prepared myself for the ritual."

"Yes, my lord."

With that, the Undertaker turned and strode from the room, disappearing into the shadows beyond the staircase. "Well, you heard the man," declared Paul. "The two of us are going to take a little trip. And it shall be _ever_ so much fun."

"The hell're we goin'?" asked Bradshaw wanly.

"Oh, we're just going to take a little walk in the woods." He shoved the shovel at Bradshaw with a nasty smirk. "Here," he said. "You'll be needing this."

* * * *

The air was damp and chilly, the night sky moonless as Bradshaw trudged up the steep path ahead of Paul. The forest around them was pitch-black, and were it not for the lantern Paul carried, it would have been impossible to see. _I'm not gonna make it, _came the morbid thought, as his bare foot hit a patch of wet leaves and promptly skidded, nearly causing him to lose his balance altogether. _I don't know what the point of all this is, anyhow. I might as well just lay down right here and die. _Behind him, the lantern danced, casting wavering lamplight over the slick ground. He could hear Paul slogging along behind him, swearing lightly under labored breath.

"Hell of a climb," he remarked almost cheerily. "Keep going, Bradshaw, Keep going."

He kept climbing, pushing forward, as if compelled by some force stronger than he--it might well have been madness that drove him. The idea that he'd finally snapped wasn't beyond the realm of possibility. Still, he moved gingerly as he went, each movement arduous. The brand on his chest throbbed unceasingly. His limbs felt dead and heavy, as if they might give out at any moment. At long last he stopped, winded, and looked up at Paul.

"How much further?"

"Not far," Paul replied. "Just to the clearing at the top of this hill."

"Could we stop a minute? Please."

"All right. But remember, we're on a tight schedule."

_Right. Don't want to be late for my own funeral. _Bradshaw nearly laughed.

"You know, Bradshaw, I don't like this any more than you do."

_Well, that's one hell of a profound statement, there. _Bradshaw snorted.

"Easy for you to say," he sneered.

"No, I--I sincerely mean that." Bradshaw promptly scowled at Paul. "Of all the half-rate minions that served the Ministry of Darkness, you were always the one with the most potential. I always saw that, and I think he did too."

"Please. Don't you go gettin' all sentimental on me, Bearer."

There was a long silence between the two of them before Paul spoke again.

"If it's any consolation at all, I'm truly sorry that it has to end this way for you." Bradshaw looked up wearily.

"If you're so opposed to this, then stop it, Paul. Let me go."

"You know I can't do that. That is not his will."

"Can't blame a man for tryin.'"

Paul raised his eyes to the path ahead and sighed gravely.

"We'd better keep moving. Come, Bradshaw. It's not much further to the top." Paul started back up the hill, moving past him, the lantern-light dancing ahead of them into the darkness. Bradshaw sighed and started after him.

It wasn't until he had nearly tripped twice over the shovel that had become too heavy to carry, that John Bradshaw Layfield had a thought. It was a revelation that dawned on him, and hit with all the force of a freight train--and it only intensified as he glanced from the handle of the spade in his hand, to the retreating form of Paul a couple of meters ahead.

The Undertaker's somber warning intruded on his mind. _Don't try anything stupid. You can run, but you can't hide from me. _Given the circumstances, he decided it was a chance he was willing to take. _What the hell have I got to lose? _

This, he realized, could be his out--his opportunity to escape.

His hands were suddenly trembling, his heart pounding painfully against his ribcage. He quickened his pace, putting less distance between himself and Paul. He hefted the shovel in his hands, raising it discreetly. _Do it, Layfield. Do it while you got the chance--_

Without as much as a second thought, Bradshaw lifted the shovel and took aim, swinging it hard. The spade caught Paul at the back of the skull with a sickening _clang_, and the man buckled to his knees. Bradshaw struck again, taking him down completely. He was facedown on the path, out cold.

Bradshaw dropped the shovel and bolted, fleeing into the dense forest as fast as his legs could carry him. He knew he had to put as much distance between himself and the path. It would only be a matter of time until the Lord of Darkness came looking for him.


	7. Chapter 7

**The Devil's Due: Chapter VII  
--**EKB

John Bradshaw Layfield was running for his life. Blindly he went, plunging headfirst into the never-ending darkness. The surrounding forest was eerily silent as death, the only sound that of leaves crunching and fallen branches snapping underfoot like skeletons as Bradshaw pushed on. Every muscle and nerve in his body screamed with fatigue, and his lungs felt as though they would burst with every sharp intake of breath he drew. Still, he didn't dare slow or stop for even a fleeting second. He was out there, Bradshaw knew, _he_ was somewhere in that all-encompassing blackness, looking for him. _Hunting_ him. The thought only incited Bradshaw to pick up his pace, running blindly into the darkness ahead.

_Run, keep running--don't look back._

There was no way of knowing where the forest ended, nor what lay on the other side--but presently, that knowledge wasn't something Bradshaw had time to concern himself with. He had a plan in mind, and it was a simple one--keep running. He would keep running until he reached the other side of the forest, keep running until he reached civilization. The first town he came to, he would seek refuge. Anyone in their right mind, seeing the condition he was in, would help him. It was a decent plan, at least, one better than surrendering to his grim fate at the hands of the Lord of Darkness. It was only a matter of getting there--wherever _there_ was--before the Undertaker found him.

He kept moving, staggering forward into the forest with no clear destination in mind, praying to God that the other side was not that far off.

Presently, his foot snagged on the protruding knob of a tree root, sending him ungracefully forward. He hit the ground hard on his hands and knees, but was quick to claw his way back to his feet.

_Keep running. Just keep running. _

The thought occurred to him, somewhat abruptly, that he had been traipsing about in the dark far too much that night for his own liking. He doubted he would ever be able to handle sleeping in complete darkness again. Just a day's time before, Bradshaw would have found the notion laughable.

Now, he found, there wasn't a damn thing funny about it at all.

* * * * *

He'd traveled in silence a good few minutes now, his frantic sprint now a steady jog. Still, he trekked forward, ever-forward, not stopping. The calm, assuring voice in the back of his mind had guided him thus to this point--_keep moving, don't stop, don't look back--_and he wasn't sure if it was his own subconscious speaking to him, or if it was something else entirely. His mental state at present was more than unstable. Of that much, he was still aware.

Gradually, the grade of the land grew steeper, and Bradshaw scrambled up the incline, fingers digging into the moist earth. He raised his eyes to the path above and ahead. At the top of the hill, he could see sky--a clearing through the trees. Perhaps, he prayed, the edge of the forest. He felt the slightest little thrill of faith that maybe, just maybe, he was going to survive this night after all.

He reached the pinnacle after what seemed like _years _and at long last, Bradshaw stopped running. He leaned into the trunk of a nearby tree to catch his breath, effectively winded by his marathon sprint, and paused to survey his surroundings. A break in the clouds revealed the thinnest sliver of a pale crescent moon hanging in the night sky overhead. Out ahead, there was a wide expanse of open, grassy plain that stretched downward to a valley.

Down below, he could see lights. There were the sketchy outlines of buildings, half-obscured by mist. A town. Civilization. _Thank __**God**__. _

He had made it out of the forest. He was beaten, wounded, and weary beyond comprehension, but he was _alive_. By God, he was _alive_. He could feel his heart soar with renewed hope. Still, Bradshaw knew he couldn't afford to stop now. An entire forest's distance between himself and the wrathful Lord of Darkness was nowhere near far enough in his opinion.

He needed to keep going.

---

_**Author's Note:**_ Hello, there! Adir here. I just wanted to take a moment to say a sincere 'thank you' to everyone who has read and reviewed this story thus far. Special thanks, especially, go to wrestlefan4, Dark Kaneanite, Taker's Hidden Soul Mate, Nefatiri, Seraphalexiel, and...pretty much ANYONE who has left reviews, feedback, PM's, or anything to that effect. I truly do appreciate it.

That being said, this is nowhere near the end of this tale. My condolences to poor Bradshaw, though he may be out of the woods in a manner of speaking. Expect a couple of unexpected twists and turns in the end.

Again, thanks for reading.

Sincerest regards,  
_Adir Al-Assad_


	8. Chapter 8

**The Devil's Due: Chapter VIII  
**--EKB

Bradshaw set off once more, heading out across the field toward the valley. The grass was nearly waist-deep and heavy with the evening dew. The tall, wet stalks dragged against the lower half of his body, only serving to make the going that much more difficult and tedious. The sliver of moon ducked out of sight behind an encroaching grey cloud, obscured from view. Impenetrable blackness overtook the landscape once more, decreasing visibility dramatically. Again, Bradshaw found himself navigating blindly in the dark, only able to pray that the direction he was heading was the direction he should be traveling.

_Keep going. _The phrase had become a mantra of sorts, serving to keep him grounded.

Slowly but surely, he picked his way through the field. Every inch of ground that he covered was like a small shard of hope that he collected and restored along the way. Soon, he would be out of this. He would survive this--he _had_ to. He wasn't giving himself a _choice_. So on he continued, the terrain growing rockier beneath his feet, treacherous in the impossible darkness. A sudden gust of wind rushed up from the valley below, caressing Bradshaw's face, cooling the perspiration lingering against his brow.

Unbidden, a chill ran up his spine. All his nerves, inexplicably, sparked to life. He whirled around swiftly, scanning the immediate area--nothing.

_**Darkness there, and nothing more.**_

His stomach twisted as he wondered just what in creation had caused _that_ particular thought to cross his mind.

He wasn't going to linger around to ponder the prospects. He turned and broke into a run again. The grass swished dully against his legs; it made him think of corpselike hands reaching out for him, trying to pull him back.

_Keepgoingkeepgoingkeep--_

_**Bradshaw. **_

The voice that interjected into his thoughts was barely audible, scarcely above a whisper, though he heard it with all the volume of a shout in his mind.

_Where a-a-a-are you, Bradshaw?_

He could have placed that pitchy, singsong voice anywhere. Panic rose in Bradshaw's throat as he realized, with infinite horror, that Paul Bearer's voice was in his _mind_, Jesus H. _Christ_--

_You know, your decision wasn't a very smart one. You're going to pay for it. _

"Shut up," Bradshaw said aloud.

_You can run as fast and as far as you want. He'll still pursue you. __**He'll still find you.**_

"Shut up!" Bradshaw screamed, shoving his hands over his ears in a vain attempt to drown out Bearer's voice. The sound of his gleeful, maniacal laughter echoed more loudly in the expanse inside his head than it ever could have in the open air. "Get out of my head, you bastard!"

_Run, Bradshaw! __**Run!**_

He did so, breaking into a frantic sprint.

Now, another voice was imposing itself on Bradshaw's psyche, more of a dark reverberation that absolutely chilled him to his core.

_Keep running, Bradshaw. Just keep running. Where you go is, to me, irrelevant. A man can travel to the ends of the earth and still not cheat Death himself. A man cannot escape the Reaper._

Bradshaw was sure as hell going to try, though.

He kept running, still running. The field seemed to stretch to eternity; he was no longer certain of where it ended or where it began. All at once, he felt a full sense of vertigo--of complete disorientation. It was as if someone had taken the world and tilted it inexplicably upon its axis. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. It was then that _something_--a force, inhuman--struck from behind and Bradshaw reeled. His vision went from normal, to blinding violet, to black. The last thing he recalled was the ground coming up from underneath, dragging him violently down to earth.

* * * * *

He came vaguely to in some indeterminate amount of time, skull throbbing with a vengeance. He was really beginning to make a nasty habit of doing this, he thought dryly, as he stirred. His head rested against something cool, hard and unyielding with a consistency of granite.

_Great. I must have tripped, fell, and knocked myself out on a rock. Good job, jackass._

He groaned and pushed himself up off the ground, unable to help wondering just how many more violent blows to the head he could take before he wouldn't be able to get up again. His vision blurred and corrected--_probably got a damn concussion, that's for sure_--as he glanced down to examine just what he'd managed to crack his head on this time. When he did, all the air left his lungs in a sharp, startled cry of terror.

The stone was no rock, but an old, weathered tombstone. Out of morbid curiosity, he felt his eyes being drawn to the crudely-scrawled inscription--_John Layfield. __**Rest in Peace. **_Bradshaw screamed and fairly leapt to his feet.

He heard a deep voice behind him chuckle, and in sheer terror, he turned, his heart nearly stopping dead. There he stood--the Lord of Darkness--an ominously amused look upon his countenance that was nothing short of sinister. Paul was behind him, looking terribly winded, but smug and appeased nonetheless.

"Looks like your good fortune just run out," he said matter-of-factly, and the Undertaker smirked, wordlessly. He didn't speak. He didn't have to. The expression on his face, the glimmer of satisfaction in otherworldly green eyes that seemed to _glow_, spoke volumes. _**I win. I **_**always**_** win. **_

Bradshaw had it in his mind to make a dash for it, and willed his legs to move, but he found himself immobilized, his feet frozen to the ground where he stood. The Lord of Darkness took one step forward and Bradshaw dropped immediately to his knees in front of him.

"Please," he grated out, unable to keep the raw shame of fear out of his tone. "_Please_--"

But in his heart, he knew that any effort would be, at this point, severely in vain. The Lord of Darkness had long had his mind made up, and this was it. The end of the line. Somewhere in this god-awful place, in this land of death and darkness and evil, the man once known as John Bradshaw Layfield would meet his end. His time on earth was swiftly approaching its close.


	9. Chapter 9

**The Devil's Due: Chapter IX  
**--EKB

"On your feet," came the command, and Bradshaw found his weary form hauled up roughly, superhuman strength dragging him with little effort into a standing position. Pain sang through his protesting shoulder joint at the forceful contact. "Now _move_."

For a long moment, Bradshaw hesitated. Whether it was that he was trying to regain his exhausted bearings, uncertain of whether he could go on, or it was that he was tempting the Undertaker in the hope that he might strike him dead then and there--either way, he could not be entirely sure. "Your resistance," growled the warning voice, "would be _most_ unwise at this point."

Bradshaw nearly barked a laugh. He felt the unsteady pull of hysteria at the outer fringes of his psyche.

_You're going to kill me anyway. What could possibly be worse than--__**oh. **_Thankfully, he had not verbalized the question. If anything, this served to reassure him that he at least had some inkling of sanity left.

"Lead on, o' bringer of death," he said wryly. The little fight he had had left was waning fast, quickly resigning itself.

"Death is not the worst evil," the Lord of Darkness replied almost conversationally. "It is worse to want to die, and not be able to."

Unsurprisingly, Bradshaw did not reply.

Their trek led them not back up the steep embankment from whence Bradshaw had come but, instead, in a wide arc that followed the edge of the forest line. Gradually, the tall weeds diminished and gave way to shorter, manicured green grass. They were in a cemetery, Bradshaw realized, and one that was well-kept and tended.

He found himself contemplating, bitterly, if he'd managed to run in the wrong goddamn direction. Then, a thought even more unsettling--that this had been part of the Undertaker's plan to begin with. Allowing him to escape, allowing hope to bloom even briefly in his chest, only to tear it away again. For all he knew, every trail in the entire goddamn forest led here, to this place. He wondered how many others, how many other poor fools had been here before him, only to suffer the same fate.

Between two monstrous, twisted oaks, there was a clearing, beyond which another branch of the graveyard extended into its own secluded alcove. The scene in itself was almost tranquil. Old marble tombstones, a weathered crypt, bathed in the pallor of the moonlight drifting through the gauzy clouds above. A circle of trees surrounded the area as if they were sentries, protecting a sacred ground.

At the center of the clearing, a funeral coach was parked. Its back hatch was open, and within, an old-fashioned coffin waited patiently for its intended occupier. There was not a doubt in Bradshaw's mind who that empty casket was meant to enclose. The thought sent a shudder through him bodily.

_So this is where it ends. Some cemetery in god-knows-where, back in the woods where nobody will ever bother to look. Nobody will ever find my corpse, nobody will--Jesus __**Christ**__. _

The Lord of Darkness strode past him with regal purpose. Waving a hand at Paul, he said, "Bring him." A hard shove from behind send Bradshaw staggering forward. As he ventured toward the hearse, his every sense overwrought with dread, he heard the Lord of Darkness speaking low in that odd, archaic tone, some sort of command. An invocation. Then, he raised his eyes back toward the entryway. "Come, my minions."

Bradshaw watched as, through the clearing, a small assembly of druids, all of them cloaked in black in the same fashion as their master, came silently forward from the entrance of the alcove. One by one, they assembled in a circle around the Undertaker. All of them seemed to be regarding something that Bradshaw couldn't quite see--

But Paul was shoving him forward again, and then he saw it, realization hitting home quickly. There was a pile of fresh dirt, next to an open grave. _His_.

_Buried alive. Oh, God. I'm going to be--__**no.**_

"No!" Bradshaw made an effort to bolt, though it was all in vain. He scarcely made it a yard before he found his ability to move compromised, and he crumpled to the ground, purple lights dancing in front of his eyes. _What the __**hell**__ did he--_

"I sincerely regret having to do that," came the Undertaker's voice, the amusement in his tone betraying his words. "However, you forced my hand. As entertaining as it might be, I do not have time to cavort around the forest in the dark chasing after your sorry ass. The time for games is over." Then he was speaking to the druids, "Bring him here."

Six black cloaks advanced on Bradshaw, massing around him, and he found himself being lifted and moved like a damn piece of furniture. He was acutely aware of the sensation of being fully conscious, yet paralyzed. His arms and legs were dead weight. The druids lifted him into a haphazard standing position, and his eyes cut directly to the dark form of the Undertaker before him. Eyes closed, hands outstretched and upturned, the Lord of Darkness appeared lost in some sort of sinister meditation. As he spoke, offering invocations in that mysterious tongue once more, the earth within the open grave began to glow with some sort of otherworldly energy. The casket _levitated, _floatingweightlessly from the back of the hearse to suspend itself over the opening in the ground. Its lid swung open, expectant. _Waiting_. Then, despite the screaming protests Bradshaw heard only in his mind, the druids lowered Bradshaw's board-stiff body into the casket.

His terror-ridden eyes watched helplessly as the scene played out before him. The Lord of Darkness stepped close, intoning once more. The druid closest to him passed the consecrated ceremonial dagger to him, and he saw the Undertaker lift it in his hands.

"Powers of darkness," he spoke the words with authority. "Accept this sacrifice in my name, and deliver his soul into my possession. By my hand, and by his blood, let this ritual be done."

Bradshaw saw him raise the dagger, wanted to scream but _couldn't_, even as the blade plunged savagely into his chest, tearing through flesh and he fought to breathe. Then, the lid of the casket slammed shut and it began to sink, down into the abyss of earth that would serve as his final tomb.

He found his voice only when he heard the clatter of dirt against the lid of the coffin.

His final breath gathered in a primal scream, even as the life warring within him slowly faded.

Silence followed darkness. Then, it was done.

----

**Author's Note:** Hello, again! This is your humble author, just popping by again to thank all of you for all your kinds words, your encouragement, and all the lovely reviews. This is not QUITE the dramatic conclusion of this particular tale. If only poor Bradshaw could be so fortunate! We are, however, nearing the end. Stay tuned to see what happens. The conclusion may surprise you.

...hell, it might just surprise me, too. ;)

Thank you all for reading. I humbly appreciate it.

Regards,  
--EKB


	10. Chapter 10

**The Devil's Due: Chapter X  
**--EKB

Blackness. Spiraling blackness, dragging him downward into the abyss of death, dark and silent.

The odd thing of it was that Bradshaw could still hear himself screaming. In fact, it was this simple but heavy realization that dragged him back into consciousness. He floundered a long moment, caught in the warring tempest of nightmare and reality, lucidity and irrationality.

_Oh God where am I what is this dark it's so __**dark--**_

--And then he broke free from the undertow and dragged himself to the surface; his eyes snapped open and there was _light_.

He sat up with a gasp so sharp it hurt. His disbelieving eyes took in the sight of the world around him.

The hotel room.

He was back in his hotel room. Safely in bed, his clothing intact, all of him in one piece. The blinding rays of early midmorning filtered in through the hazy window-screens--but was it all a lie? Could this be another grand manipulation forged by the hand of the Lord of Darkness? Perhaps this was all just another hallucination, brought about by blood loss and one too many shots to the head. For all Bradshaw knew, he was still in that godforsaken dank dungeon, chained to the wall. That, however, seemed illogical. He remembered the plunge of unforgiving cold steel into his chest. He had felt the life within him fade, felt it wane--for God's sake, he had _died_.

Hadn't he?

He felt trepidation rising in his chest, his pulse picking up an erratic tempo--

_His __**pulse.**_

Bradshaw's hand flew to his throat, two fingers seeking and finding the beat there. It was rapid, arrhythmic, but it was _there_, thrumming with life beneath his fingertips. Alive. He was _alive_. Dazed, and feeling as though somebody had beaten the unholy shit out of him and dumped him back in bed before morning, but the fact still stood that he was _**alive! **_A laugh erupted from him before he could stop himself.

_That sure was one hell of a nightmare._

With vivid recollection, he found himself mulling over the events of the previous night, starting with the electrical storm. The power outage. It all had seemed so _real_. He could still feel the painful rush of air into his lungs as he ran for his life, the soggy forest floor giving way beneath his footfalls. The sound of dirt clattering down upon the closed lid of his casket. Then, death. Dark and merciless. He imagined he still smelled of dirt, of the grave, and that that smell would stay with him always.

The thought sent a shiver right through him.

It was best, he decided, to get the hell out of this town as soon as possible, while he still could. He sat up gingerly, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed. Moving, he found, was a laborious effort. His entire body felt bruised; every joint protested. He winced as he rose and shuffled off to the room's tiny cubbyhole of a bathroom. He flipped a switch, and the single yellow bulb over the vanity flickered dimly to life.

Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, Bradshaw recoiled physically. The air went from his lungs as if someone had slammed their fist particularly hard into his gut. The visage that stared, just as horrified, back at him, was indeed his own. His features, though unmarked and uninjured, were markedly different somehow. His hair looked as though it had gone awry. His face was pallid and gaunt, and sported dark circles beneath the eyes, giving him the appearance of a man who'd not seen decent sleep in a week. He looked like--_death warmed over--_Bradshaw banished the thought, shuddering bodily. He cranked on the faucet and splashed icy water over his face until he was sure he could feel the color returning, relieved when some semblance of it actually had.

It wasn't until he was toweling his face dry that he noticed the odd mark, just beneath the line of his open shirt collar. It almost looked like--

_No._

Bradshaw was fairly certain he felt his heart stop cold a couple of beats before starting up again.

_Oh, Christ. _

Panic seized him. His hands flew to his shirt collar and hesitated. If what lay beneath was indeed what he feared it was, then that fear--his very _worst_ fear--would be confirmed: that his nightmare was real. That it _had_ happened.

Morbid curiosity won out in the end and compelled him forward. With trembling fingers, he unfastened the buttons on his nightshirt and, with every inch of skin exposed, he felt his stomach sink further and further toward his toes.

The mark began dead-center on his chest, reaching down his abdomen toward his navel. Where the brand had seared into his flesh, a remarkably-healed, raised area of scar tissue now marred the surface of his skin--his symbol, a permanent fixture, a lasting reminder. Bradshaw's eyes flew wide with terror. A wave of revulsion nearly floored him there. He could feel a scream rising in his lungs, gathering in the back of his throat.

Without a flourish, the struggling bulb over the vanity flickered and went dark.

_Yep. Definitely time to get the hell out of Dodge._

Bradshaw threw himself backward from the vanity and fled the small bathroom, bolting directly for his luggage. Collecting his belongings (and a few hotel effects along the way), he shoved everything unceremoniously into his overnighter. He dressed in haste, no qualms at all about his off-kilter appearance, and left the hotel room as fast as his feet could carry him.

* * * * *

At the checkout desk downstairs, Mabel was waiting for him, ever-present pleasant smile on her face as she greeted him.

"Good mornin,' Mr. Layfield. Everything all right?"

There were a thousand answers his mind could have formulated to that question, none of them sound in rational thought. He opted instead for a neutral, "Yes, ma'am, thank you."

"One of the housekeepers said she heard some peculiar noises coming from your floor last night. I hope you weren't disturbed."

_Oh, you have __**no**__ idea. _

"I didn't hear anything." He paused before venturing, "Though, I gotta tell you, that was some storm we had here last night. I bet the power goes out every time it comes a good rain like that."

The old lady looked puzzled for a moment before smiling politely again.

"Why, dear, there was no storm last night. And the power was on all night." Bradshaw must have looked particularly stricken then, because Mabel was peering at him questioningly, concern tightening the lines on her face. "Honey, are you all right?"

"Fine," he answered unsteadily. "I must have been mistaken." With that, he yanked a hundred dollar bill from his wallet and threw it on the counter. "Keep the change."

He all but ran to the door.

Bradshaw imagined he must look quite a sight as he emerged from the hotel with the aura of some deranged lunatic--unshaven, hair a mess, clad in some rumpled outfit he'd worn days ago and not giving a damn. He half-sprinted to his rental car and tossed his bags in the back, practically vaulted into the driver's seat and started the car. The engine roared to life and he kicked it into reverse. He sped from the parking lot, slinging gravel, and hit the main highway as fast as the accelerator would carry him. He left the small town of Midway, the Wayside Inn, the whole godforsaken place in a cloud of settling red dust.

He didn't look back, not for one second. If he did, he feared, he might catch sight of a lone, black-clad figure standing by the roadside--still as death, stealthy as shadow, plotting his next move.

_Keep running. Just keep running. _

The speeding car carried him toward the horizon that reached far beyond the pale cobalt sky of that spring morning. Somewhere along the line, he had already decided that home wasn't where he was headed. Where he was going, he hadn't the slightest; he supposed he would figure it out when he got there. If he got there.

He reached over to turn on the stereo, flipping to the first channel that would come in clear way the hell out here in the middle of nowhere. An old song by Tears for Fears was playing. He knew the words, had heard the lyrics countless times before, but never had he been particularly struck by them until now.

_I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad. The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had. _

Bradshaw could have laughed until he cried.

**FIN**

**+ + +  
A/N: **Well, here we are, kids! I just wanted to say thanks, as always, to everyone, everywhere, who has read and reviewed. Your support has motivated me to see this thing through to the end, and I thank you all so very much. This has really been my first attempt at a lengthy horror-suspense type thingy, and it's been a crazy ride. The end. :)


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